


Turn it Inside Out

by mithrel



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Blanket Permission, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Circumlocution, Complicated Relationships, Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), First Time, Friends With Benefits, Hand Jobs, Hot Tub Sex, Implied Consent, Light Angst, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Podfic Welcome, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, The Most Roundabout Love Confession Ever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-05-30 19:30:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19409884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mithrel/pseuds/mithrel
Summary: It was just a one time thing...he thought.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> OK, so this is the first smut I've written in eight years. Thanks to triedunture for looking this over for me and telling me it didn't suck. Also it seems I'm incapable of writing Good Omens fic without Crowley ~~ruining it with~~ adding a pointless amount of angst.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is a perfect gentleman.

Crowley lies back, half-drowsing in the heat, not quite asleep, but close to it. His peace is rudely interrupted by a squawk.

“What is _that?!_ ”

He lazily opens his eyes to see Aziraphale, who apparently had let himself in, gazing down at him, scandalized.

He sits up, raising an arm to wipe the water out of his hair, and he sees Aziraphale’s gaze following the motion, then flicking to his chest, before snapping up again, eyes wide.

At that moment a notion plants itself in Crowley’s mind, and he represses the slow smirk with difficulty. “’S’a Jacuzzi, angel. Surely you’ve seen one before.”

“W-well, yes,” Aziraphale stammers. “Yes, of course! Mineral springs and Turkish baths and so on. But…But you’re not wearing anything!”

Crowley lets the smirk out and lies back again, sprawling, arms spread expansively. “So?”

Aziraphale’s mouth opens and closes, and Crowley can’t help noticing that his eyes are skittering around the room, down to meet his own, then further down, back to a statue in the corner, up, down, everywhere.

“Well, you at least might wear some sort of…of… _attire._ ”

Crowley smirks again. “Why bother?”

Aziraphale doesn’t seem to have a response to that.

“You should try it, angel,” Crowley suggests, then, as Aziraphale splutters incredulously, “Not the nudity. The hot tub.”

Aziraphale’s gaze darts down again, and he swallows and licks his lips. “But you–”

Crowley puts his hand where his heart would be, if he had one. “Angel, I promise I will be a perfect gentleman.”

Aziraphale looks torn for a moment, then sighs, closes his eyes, and his clothes shift to–

Crowley snorts. Aziraphale’s now wearing what can be only described as a “bathing costume,” straight out of the 1930’s. It has _shoulder straps._

But Aziraphale is already nervous enough, so Crowley just moves over to allow him to sit across from him.

Aziraphale is entirely too tense for someone in this situation. He gingerly extends his legs, while Crowley carefully keeps his own legs out of the way. Luckily the Jacuzzi is more than big enough for that. He may not be a snake anymore, but he still has a higher-than-average appreciation for heat and humidity. Thus, the hot tub, and a shower upstairs that some might describe as “decadent” and others as “obscene.”

Aziraphale fidgets, trying to find the most comfortable position in that ridiculous getup. Crowley lets him get situated, still carefully not touching him. When Aziraphale sighs and closes his eyes, Crowley presses his advantage. “Told you. You’re too tense all the time. Anyone’d think the Apocalypse was still going on.”

“Well, perhaps that’s true. Still, I mustn’t let myself go, give in to self-satisfaction, or sloth, or, or…”

 _Or lust_ , Crowley completes with a mental grin. “It’s one thing not to be lazy, angel, it’s quite another to keep yourself so wrought-up you can’t do anything. Besides, you eat, don’t you? And that hasn’t led to gluttony, so why should this lead to sloth?”

“Hmmm,” Aziraphale responds noncommittally. Crowley moves just enough to cause a ripple of the water to wash over him, and Aziraphale gives him a sharp look, then gulps and closes his eyes again.

Aziraphale’s still holding himself as straight as if his posture was going to be inspected at any moment, so Crowley plays his trump card.

He puts on the jets.

Aziraphale’s sitting right in front of one, and he sits up instantly, eyes wide. Crowley just gives him a disgusted look and he settles back reluctantly, but in a moment he’s shifted so the jet is massaging his shoulder blades. “Oh, that’s…quite nice, actually.”

Crowley represses a grin.

Now for the next step. But he has to do it carefully, since there’s that pesky promise to deal with. Not that Crowley values his given word, but it is _Aziraphale_ he promised, and besides, he’s not going to do anything the angel truly objects to.

So he insinuates a leg between Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale opens his eyes for a moment, but just blinks at him sleepily, rather than objecting.

So far so good. Now Crowley takes his foot and sweeps it up Aziraphale’s leg. Start at the ankle, up the calf, end just above the knee, then back down.

Aziraphale’s eyes shoot open. “C-Crowley!”

Crowley gives him as innocent a look as he’s capable of. “What, angel?” Start at the ankle, up the calf, then back down.

Aziraphale gets a curious look then, like his face is keeping in something explosive, then he slumps back against the wall. “Nothing.”

That’s unexpected enough that Crowley stops what he’s doing to examine Aziraphale’s expression. His eyes are closed, and there’s a furrow between his brows, but not as if he’s trying to get through something unpleasant. More as if he’s concentrating fiercely on something, hands clenched on his knees rather than–-what?

Cautiously, Crowley resumes his aborted movement. Aziraphale’s breath hitches, but he doesn’t object. On the contrary, he lets his legs fall open just an infinitesimal bit more.

Slightly astonished that he’s got this far, Crowley lets his foot drift a bit higher, well past mid-thigh. Aziraphale makes a choked noise.

That does it. Crowley surges across the tub and plants himself in Aziraphale’s lap.

Aziraphale splutters at him. “Crowley! You promised you wouldn’t try anything!”

Now for it. “No, I promised I’d be a perfect gentleman. And a gentleman wouldn’t leave a friend uncomfortable, now would he?”

Aziraphale stares at him for a long moment, while Crowley holds absolutely still. Finally, he sighs and says “No, I suppose not.”

Even given tacit permission, Crowley doesn’t move right away. When he does, he buries his nose behind Aziraphale’s ear, inhaling chlorine and heat and the one scent that’s been his constant for six thousand years.

Aziraphale shivers when Crowley’s tongue flickers out to glide over his pulse point, and his hands grip Crowley’s hips.

Crowley takes his time. For one thing, he never thought he’d be in this position, and he wants to savour it. For another, he’s afraid if he goes too fast Aziraphale will come to his senses and push him off.

But Aziraphale shows no sign of wanting to push him away. On the contrary, his hands are fastened on Crowley’s hips hard enough to bruise, and his head is tipped back to give him access to the skin behind his ear.

Crowley mouths along Aziraphale’s jaw to his chin, allowing himself to use his teeth the slightest bit, and Aziraphale gives a hiccupping gasp.

Crowley pulls back, afraid he’s gone too far. Aziraphale’s pupils are blown and his skin is redder than the heat alone can account for. Crowley swallows. He wants to touch him, but he isn’t quite sure he dares.

He splays his hands on Aziraphale’s chest, but there’s too much fabric in the way. Momentarily exasperated, Crowley pulls the ridiculous straps off his shoulders, and the suit floats in the bubbles, half-off.

He allows himself to run his hands along Aziraphale’s chest, down his sides, and the angel underneath him murmurs “Oh _Crowley,_ " in a tone so nearly reverent Crowley stops and closes his eyes, momentarily ashamed of himself.

Aziraphale’s hand gently takes hold of his chin and tilts it up. Crowley keeps his eyes closed, but then there’s a soft pressure on his lips and his eyes shoot open.

Aziraphale’s own eyes are closed, kissing him softly, looking like he’s not going to pull away any time soon. Crowley struggles a moment, then abandons himself to the kiss.

It goes on for a long time, saying many things neither of them have admitted until now, things Crowley still isn’t willing to admit to himself.

Crowley pulls away first, unable to take this new rawness between them.

Aziraphale smiles at him and runs a hand through his hair.

Crowley is sure he was in control at one point, but the situation is spiraling away from him. In a moment Aziraphale is going to open his mouth and say something about _feelings,_ and Crowley can’t deal with that, so he attempts to move things back onto a more comfortable footing.

He buries his head in Aziraphale’s neck again, sucking a bruise into his skin to prove to both of them just how in-control he is.

Aziraphale squirms underneath him, but doesn’t object. Crowley’s not the only one hard now, not the only one a little bit desperate.

Crowley flicks his hand across Aziraphale’s nipple, and the angel gives a shocked gasp, bucking into him. Crowley pulls back, taking a moment to examine his handiwork, before sweeping his hands up the angel’s back.

Aziraphale gives a frustrated groan underneath him. “ _Crowley!_ ”

Again the faux-innocent look. “What, angel?”

“ _Do that again."_

“Do what again?” Crowley says, but before Aziraphale can say anything he magicks the ridiculous costume to the nearest dustbin and bends his head to take Aziraphale’s nipple in his mouth.

Aziraphale makes a noise between a gasp and a moan and his hands come up to fist in Crowley’s hair. His skin is hot, and Crowley is dizzy with his scents and sounds and the fact that they’re actually _doing_ this.

Crowley’s hand wanders down below the waterline, taking Aziraphale in his hand and the angel _keens._ Crowley has to sit back to watch the angel’s face as he takes him apart. Aziraphale looks rapturous, like he’s touched something miraculous, and the water goes suddenly cloudy.

Crowley wrinkles his nose fastidiously and magicks the mess away, then looks over to see Aziraphale looking at him adoringly. Suddenly ashamed again, he moves to pull away, but Aziraphale’s next words stop him dead.

“Might I…might I return the favor?”

“If you want,” Crowley hears himself say through the roaring in his ears, trying for casual but coming out too strangled to be convincing.

Aziraphale goes faintly pink. “Ah, I’m not sure how exactly…to…” he trails off, blushing furiously.

Something in Crowley’s chest twists, not uncomfortably, and he feels an impossibly fond smile tugging his lips. “I’ll show you.”

He turns to pivot on Aziraphale’s lap, but Aziraphale’s hands tighten on his hips, and Crowley cocks his head curiously.

“I would prefer…that is, I should like to…to see your face,” Aziraphale mumbles, not looking at him.

And Crowley feels the situation tilting out of his grasp again. He wants to refuse, not willing to be vulnerable like that, but he knows how much it must have cost Aziraphale to make that request, and after all it’s only fair. He drank in Aziraphale’s every expression; it would be selfish (he snorts mentally) to deny him the same.

He settles back on Aziraphale’s thighs, taking his hand carefully and cupping himself with it. Aziraphale’s fingers twitch minutely and he sighs.

Crowley’s not quite so turned-on anymore, which is perhaps a good thing, since otherwise he would have embarrassed himself at the first touch of Aziraphale’s hand. He shows him how to grip and how to stroke, Aziraphale getting the picture rather more quickly than he might have thought under other circumstances, and soon all Crowley has to do is lean back into Aziraphale’s supporting arm and _feel._

Time has gone wonky, contracting and dilating irregularly, so he’s not quite sure how long he floats like that. Forever and not long enough. His hips start twitching up involuntarily, heat cascading through his veins, and sunbursts explode behind his eyes.

He drifts in post-orgasmic lassitude for awhile, Aziraphale’s arms coming up to hold him, and when he finally opens his eyes the water is clear, no sign of any untoward activity. Aziraphale’s face is too soft, though, and Crowley braces himself for the inevitable Conversation.

Aziraphale only smiles at him, though, and kisses the corner of his mouth. “Thank you.”

Crowley makes a dismissive noise, moving off his lap, but Aziraphale grabs his shoulders, turns him, and plops him down again.

Crowley stiffens momentarily, then sighs and relaxes, pillowing his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder and letting himself drift.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fallout, which wasn't quite so bad as Crowley had been dreading.

It must be at least an hour later when Aziraphale stirs. Crowley jolts out of his pleasant daze, heartrate rocketing into overdrive out of habit.

Aziraphale hums and runs a hand through his hair, but Crowley pulls away.

Resolutely not looking at the angel, he climbs out of the hot tub, droplets pattering from his hair and skin as he goes.

A moment later he’s wearing his usual outfit, complete with sunglasses. He looks over his shoulder at Aziraphale, who’s moved to the side of the tub and is looking uncertain.

“Come on,” Crowley says impatiently, and as Aziraphale climbs out there’s suddenly a towel around his waist.

Aziraphale blinks, and his lips twitch for a moment. _What…?_ Crowley suddenly recalls the conversation on the bench. Ah. But he knows how infernally modest Aziraphale is, so he’s not going to let him just stand there naked.

Aziraphale coughs softly. “My clothes…?”

Crowley sighs and summons the bathing suit, now dry and clean. Aziraphale looks at it for a moment, at a loss, trying to juggle it and the towel.

Crowley snorts, and a moment later there’s a changing screen between them. Aziraphale gives him a small smile. “Thank you, my dear.”

He twitches at the nickname, but Aziraphale doesn’t notice. In a surprisingly short time, he’s back in his usual ensemble, hair not even wet.

Crowley knows that they’re going to have to talk now, and he might as well be the one to start the conversation. “So.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, putting a finger in his collar. “Quite.”

The silence stretches.

“Was this…” Aziraphale gestures at the Jacuzzi, “a…a _singular_ occurrence?”

“Why?” Crowley croaks through a suddenly dry throat. “Did you… _want_ it to be a singular occurrence?”

Aziraphale looks studiedly at the ground. “Well, that depends.”

“On what?” Time is doing strange things again, and his blood is roaring in his ears.

“Well, you did…initiate things,” Aziraphale mumbles into the floor. “But I wouldn’t want to assume–”

“Waitwait,” Crowley says, sure he’s misheard. “You mean it depends on what _I_ want?”

“Well, of course,” Aziraphale replies, as if there’s nothing strange about it at all.

But there most decidedly is. It’s been so long since someone asked Crowley what he wanted that for a moment he’s not sure how to figure it out. It doesn’t help that for the last six millennia he’s had a rather annoying habit of always considering what _Aziraphale_ would want.

And there are two interpretations to this situation. One is that Aziraphale wants to repeat what they did, so long as Crowley himself is willing. The other interpretation (the small, mean part of him points out) is that Aziraphale _doesn’t_ want to repeat it, but if Crowley does, he will anyway.

And the sensible thing would be to simply _ask_ him about it, but Crowley hasn’t spent the last six millennia with Aziraphale being sensible.

“We could…continue things,” he says. “Just…add to our current relationship, as it were.”

Aziraphale’s lips thin. “That’s a rather…modern arrangement.”

“We don’t have to!” Crowley blurts, feeling the familiar Panic at Having Disappointed Aziraphale rearing its ugly head.

“I didn’t say that.”

“…Oh.”

“Well then,” Aziraphale says with a brittle smile.

“Well then,” Crowley repeats stupidly.

Aziraphale walks toward him. For a moment Crowley doesn’t realize what he intends, but when Aziraphale leans in, he pulls back immediately. “Nonono, none of that! Not unless we’re doing…other things.”

“Ah, yes, quite. I beg your pardon,” Aziraphale says, adjusting his waistcoat. Is that a flash of disappointment in his expression? Crowley dismisses the thought as ridiculous.

***

For the next several weeks it’s as if the scene in Crowley’s flat never happened. They meet in the park, have lunch at various restaurants, and Crowley drops by the bookshop as usual. Crowley begins to wonder if it was all a fevered hallucination.

Until he opens the door one day only to be slammed against the wall, his lips captured by eleven stone of angel.

“Wh–” he starts, turning his head. “Angel, people will see!”

“No, they won’t,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley hears the blinds clatter down.

And it’s ridiculous. Aziraphale is shorter, heavier, and in worse condition than he is, not to mention handicapped by whatever moral considerations the angel might still have. The idea of him being _sexually aggressive_ is laughable.

But Crowley finds himself unable to move from where Aziraphale has him pinned, thigh levered between his own.

As Aziraphale moves from his lips down to his neck Crowley takes a frenzied instant to contrast Aziraphale’s behavior three weeks ago with what he’s doing now and wonder what the hell brought on this change.

Crowley’s jacket is shoved half-off his shoulders and his arms are pinned uncomfortably behind him, but he can’t care, not when Aziraphale’s hands are down the back of his jeans and his tongue in Crowley’s mouth.

Aziraphale pulls away again, moves to his ear, takes the lobe in his mouth and starts _gnawing,_ and Crowley’s knees almost give out.

He must have made some sound or other, because Aziraphale looks at him, something between a smile and a smirk on his face, then there’s a sensation of displacement, a _whoosh_ of half-real wings, and they’re standing in the bedroom of the flat above the bookshop.

Crowley knows Aziraphale only keeps the flat for appearance’s sake, has a cup of tea or cocoa in the sitting room fairly often but never uses the bedroom.

Today, however, the covers are turned down and the pillows fluffed.

He just has time to take this in when Aziraphale pushes him down onto the bed and _climbs into his lap._

Crowley has the presence of mind to get rid of his jacket while he has the chance, then Aziraphale pushes him to his back and undoes the button on his jeans.

In all the times he’s imagined them having sex, Crowley _never_ pictured it like this. In his fantasies, Aziraphale was always the one pinned against the wall, the one half-undressed as Crowley loomed over him. He should be objecting to this on principle, but then Aziraphale has his jeans open and his hand inside and Crowley’s mouth opens and his eyes close and he forgets everything for a moment.

He’s brought back to himself by a hot kiss, and manages to complain “You’re wearing too much.”

Aziraphale grins unrepentantly and takes off his jacket, so he’s only wearing eight layers instead of ten. Crowley glares at him.

Aziraphale ghosts a hand through his hair and Crowley does his best not to lean into the touch. “Patience, my dear.”

“I’ve been patient for six thousand years. I’m through being patient,” he grumbles.

Aziraphale looks briefly surprised, then his gaze softens and he takes off his bow tie and waistcoat, laying them carefully aside.

In any other circumstances Crowley would be embarrassed at how he reacts to the flash of wrist as Aziraphale’s sleeves ride up, but now he just puts his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders and pushes him down on the bed, tearing open his shirt, sending buttons flying everywhere.

Crowley can’t tell if the gasp Aziraphale gives is scandalized or approving, but he doesn’t care, he’ll fix the damn shirt later.

And it’s not like he hasn’t seen Aziraphale naked before, but the other times were either sneaked glances or a frenzied close-contact fumble he was sure was going to be stopped at any moment.

He’s never had the luxury to _stare._

But he does now, sweeping his gaze from Aziraphale’s collarbone to his hips and back, taking in the light dusting of hair down his arms, the mole on his chest, the muscles underneath the slight layer of fat.

Aziraphale seems perfectly at ease under the scrutiny, but Crowley sees a flash of doubt in his eyes and he smiles slowly, running his hands down Aziraphale’s flanks.

“You’re beautiful, angel.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks go pink and he scoffs, but the doubt is gone, his expression soft and open, showing too much.

To protect himself from that expression, Crowley eels out of his T-shirt, throwing it over his shoulder with a flick of the wrist.

That seems to recall Aziraphale to what he should be doing. He pulls Crowley down on top of him and grinds up as Crowley attempts to slither out of his jeans, grabs his ass and pulls him forward, making Crowley hiss, then rolls them so he’s on top again.

He discards the ragged remains of his shirt, takes hold of the ankles of Crowley’s jeans and pulls them off, then applies himself to his own trousers.

It doesn’t click what this relative positioning _means_ until Aziraphale runs a hand along his hip under his pants, dipping a finger into the crease, and Crowley feels a thrill of apprehension. Not that he’s never done that before; he’s engaged in every permutation of sex humanity has come up with, and some it hasn’t. But those were all meaningless encounters, fumbles in alleys or men’s rooms or cheap motels, not…this.

Aziraphale’s hand stills. “Are you all right?”

“I’m _fine,_ angel!” Crowley snarls, and pulls him into a savage kiss to prove it.

When Aziraphale pulls away he licks his lips, then he parts Crowley’s cheeks and–

“Nngh!” Crowley’s hands go to Aziraphale’s hair, because he doesn’t know what demon put that notion into his angel’s head, but he _doesn’t want him to stop._

He doesn’t stop, not for a long while, not until Crowley’s head is spinning and his hips are giving little jerks. When Aziraphale raises his head, he’s looking uncommonly smug. Crowley can’t even scold him for it; he’s too busy trying to figure out where his bones have gone.

And then Aziraphale’s finger is slipping into him, and it’s slick, and at any other time Crowley would tease him about frivolous use of miracles, but not now.

He squeezes his eyes shut at the initial intrusion, then opens them to find Aziraphale staring at him.

“What?” he snarls, resisting a ludicrous urge to cover himself. He’s never felt this naked, not in six thousand years.

“Just checking,” Aziraphale says, then moves his finger.

He’s infuriatingly slow, thrusting in and out a millimeter at a time, swirling his finger to stretch, and Crowley can’t help but wish for the frenetic pace of a few minutes ago.

After the Earth has revolved around the sun a few dozen times he adds another finger. Crowley hisses in satisfaction and Aziraphale immediately stops.

Aziraphale is gazing at him in consternation, though, so Crowley bites back his sharp remark and rocks his hips up, hoping Aziraphale will get the hint.

He doesn’t, of course, so Crowley growls out “Will you _get on with it_ already?!”

Aziraphale blinks at him as if he’s not quite sure what Crowley’s on about, but he does start scissoring his fingers, so Crowley counts it as a win.

Crowley starts floating at that point, an occasional stab of sensation puncturing the fog, but he’s not entirely sure how long Aziraphale takes to prepare him, and at this point he doesn’t really care.

He focuses again as Aziraphale shifts, lines himself up, and sinks in, too slowly, with a moan that breaks Crowley into a million pieces.

Aziraphale lies there for a moment, panting raggedly in his ear, and Crowley clenches, just to give Aziraphale a taste of his own medicine.

Aziraphale moans again, and his hips twitch, but he doesn’t _move._

“Angel,” Crowley rumbles in his ear, “If you don’t move, I…” he casts about for a moment, trying to find a dire enough threat, “I’ll _never talk to you again._ ”

Aziraphale shudders, at the same time he gives him a reproving look for throwing his own words back in his face, but he pulls out a bare fraction and pushes back in.

Crowley’s hands go to his shoulders and he buries his head in his neck, as Aziraphale, encouraged by his reaction, does it again.

And apparently Aziraphale is the kind to talk during sex, because he starts babbling, nonsensical things like “Oh, my darling,” and “I’ve waited…” and “You’re so _good,_ ” and any other time Crowley would have Things to Say about That, but now he drinks them in like rain on dry soil.

And just when he thinks he can’t get any higher, Aziraphale reaches down and takes hold of him, and Crowley comes apart with a broken noise and clenches around him, and Aziraphale is surging into him, and he’s not sure if the lights flicker or there are just spots behind his eyes…

After they’ve both caught their breath, Crowley looks at Aziraphale with poorly-disguised admiration. “What brought that on?”

Aziraphale, in defiance of his behavior a mere two minutes ago, blushes. “Well, ah, we have…redefined our relationship. You didn’t like it?”

Crowley goes over his reactions in the last half an hour, wondering which of those could possibly be interpreted as _not liking it,_ and just raises an eyebrow.

Aziraphale goes even redder, but he’s apparently got something on his mind. “Talking of redefining relationships–”

Oh no. Not this again. Crowley wonders how many times he’ll have to squash this particular bug before it _stays_ squashed. “Angel–”

“I know you don’t like me to press!” Aziraphale says, hands up in a defensive gesture. “And I wouldn’t, except I was just…wondering.”

Crowley sighs. Apparently Aziraphale is dead set on this. “Wondering what, angel?”

“Well, as I said, we’ve redefined our relationship…one might even say ‘upgraded’…and I was wondering if there’d ever…at some unspecified point in the future…be room for another…um…”

Aziraphale trails off at the look on his face. Crowley pinches the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t need this. “You do realize it took us six millennia to get this far.”

“I’m aware,” Aziraphale says, eyes perfectly level, and _what._ The implication there is…Crowley doesn’t want to think about it.

“Thing about another upgrade, though,” Crowley babbles, “Is that there’s not much left. I mean it goes enemies, colleagues, friends, best friends, friends with benefits…There’s…just not much higher you can… go.”

If the medical and jewelry industries could have harnessed Aziraphale’s gaze, Crowley thinks irrelevantly, they’d have saved millions on expensive lasers.

“And-and another upgrade has certain…expectations, certain…emotional…statements…” Crowley finally peters into silence, horribly afraid he’s blushing.

“Not from me!” Aziraphale says quickly.

Crowley blinks at him.

“I…I mean…I would never expect anything of you that you didn’t want to give, regardless of our relationship, and anyway…well in many ways it’s really irrelevant.”

“Excuse me?!”

“Not…not that you’re irrelevant!” Aziraphale says, and Crowley feels a stab of perverse satisfaction that he’s not the only one speaking before he thinks. “It’s just that…regardless of our relationship, hypothetical or otherwise, certain…bridges have already been crossed, as it were.”

 _Yes, I_ know _that, angel, must you keep reminding me?_

“So you’re just asking for symmetry’s sake, is that it?” Crowley snarls.

Aziraphale looks briefly shocked. “N-no, of course not! As I said, I’d never–”

“I know you’d never!” Crowley bellows at him. “That’s why it took us six sodding millennia to get to this point!”

Aziraphale blinks at him. “Are…are you saying that this could have happened–”

“The point is that it didn’t!” Crowley snaps, unwilling to admit how long he’s been…interested in Aziraphale.

“Ah. Well. In that case…um.”

At least he’s discombobulated the angel, Crowley thinks. Whether that’s a fair trade for his current humiliation is up for debate.

“Look…” Crowley says, throwing him a bone. “How many impossible things have happened recently?”

“Quite…quite a lot,” Aziraphale says, obviously not following him.

“So who’s to say another impossible thing won’t happen at some point.”

The penny drops.

“Besides,” Crowley continues, “would be pointless to upgrade again so soon after the first, especially since…things might not be on an even footing…quite yet.”

Aziraphale nods, but Crowley’s not done.

“You said it would be irrelevant for you anyway, and I’m still considering…relevance.”

It takes a moment, but then Aziraphale’s mouth drops open slightly, then he surges forward and kisses him.

Crowley lets him.


End file.
